


Building Blocks

by The Wanderer of Thoughts (Robin_the_Wanderer)



Category: Project: Matchmakers - Fandom, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Based on a Fan Work, Character Study, Dark, Free Verse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Linear Narrative, Poetry, Project: Matchmakers Spin-off, Prose Poem, Prose/Verse, Slight symbolism, Snippets, Unreliable Narrator, experimental writing style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 09:18:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15927431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_the_Wanderer/pseuds/The%20Wanderer%20of%20Thoughts
Summary: Lives are just made of building blocks. Some happier, some rainier.The life of Nadia Gordian is no exception.





	Building Blocks

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Project: Matchmakers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674342) by [WingSongHalo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingSongHalo/pseuds/WingSongHalo). 



> I can't begin to list the so many things I owe to all the wonderfully unique people I met thanks to _Project: Matchmakers_ , so I won't.
> 
> That said, I do owe my King a special mention, for helping me navigate around Nadia until I found the little opening to her secrets.
> 
> And, of course, I owe Wing, who created the beautiful world of P:M, and gave life to characters as interesting as Nadia Gordian, whose story I felt needed to be told, the very existence of this work.
> 
> (Please, listen to this while reading this piece: https://youtu.be/V1Pl8CzNzCw)

 

Nadia Gordian feels a strange sort of relief.

 

The blue light is too bright, it blinds her in flashes. She is inside a police car, handcuffed. People talk outside, not too far. She can't hear what they say—an arrest muffles a world she is only vaguely aware of existing on the other side of the car window.

 

A part of her feels grateful that it has been this way for the better part of the last half hour.

 

She enjoys silence, now that it is over.

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian sees her daughter in the photos.

 

That is fine, she thinks, every time a faint sting rises, through her body, to her eyes.

There are no tears, as she looks at the photographs.

 

She sees her daughter in the smiles.

 

It is fine.

 

* * *

 

_She thinks of a gun._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian lies awake.

 

There are too many things to be done to sleep, she thinks. Too much takes place during sleep, she thinks.

 

Her mind is always loud.

 

* * *

 

 _She thinks it is a bad idea._  

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian thinks that it has been a week since.

 

He tries to act as if their lives did not feel like a hollow tube, the air whistling through a reminder of a loss.

 

She feels like she is coping for two.

 

* * *

 

_She thinks it would not work._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian expects him to say it.

 

It is for justice.

 

She guffaws. It is ridiculous. Justice, he says.

Ego, it seems.

 

She knows it is not. But his is one too many people's vulnerability than she can deal with.

So she does not.

 

Settles with what she can.

 

* * *

 

_She wonders if there is no other way._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian sips the last of her coffee.

 

Goes to leave the mug in the sink.

It is late. It is early.

 

She tries to find a spot that will not alter the delicate balance of porcelain, metal, glass.

A dish, in pieces. It is silent afterwards.

 

His sobs are muffled by a door, somewhere in a house with one bed too many. They sometimes morph into something bitter. Cursing, perhaps.

It does not matter, she thinks, with the spirit of a shrug. She does not bother.

 

Accidents happen.

 

* * *

 

_She thinks it would be better not to leave anything behind._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian does not think of herself as a failed mother.

 

She thinks away from closure. She does not know what to do with it.

There is no room in the car.

 

It pours outside. The rain is thick and continuous. Only a small part of what is outside can be seen.

A false curtain, a fluid veil, blurs what is beyond.

 

She does not know the time. It is dark outside. There is only rain.

 

Water slides down the windshield and windows. It dances with the street lamps.

 

A delicate play of light and shade is cast upon her skin.

Pale.

 

There is no family in the car.

 

* * *

 

_She wants to._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian does not know what to make of it.

 

He raises his glass. It is empty. It has been for a while. He does not seem to notice.

She wonders if he can, idly.

 

He half talks. She half listens.

 

Perhaps.

 

* * *

 

_She wonders why._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian goes along.

 

She is busy, this way.

His goal is not clear. It is conspicuous, double-layered. He hides something.

It is all the same to her.

 

Nothing but another building block her life has come to be constituted of. Short-lived goals in a non-linear narrative.

A loop, from waking to lying awake.

 

An end is met, and another beginning comes to be. A serene ebbing, a comforting lilt. The waltz of her life, she muses.

 

Another name, another face, another girl, another plotless tale devoid of merry end.

Another pointless tick, tack, tick, tacking of the heart.

 

No end. Try, fail. Wake, same as yesterday.

 

Repetition is punitive, she realises. He self-flagellates. Coping mechanism.

 

Why bother. Why not. Who knows.

 

* * *

 

_No answer._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian knows this is the last.

 

He, too.

She walks, and the echo of the engine dies away behind her.

He has had enough, she cannot have any.

 

Still cold.

 

* * *

 

_No answer._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian awaits trial.

 

There are people in the gallery. Faces. Chess pieces. Society weighing damages.

 

Imperfect clockwork.

Defective mechanism.

Live wires.

 

Utopian dreams.

 

* * *

 

_No answer._

 

* * *

 

Nadia Gordian. Another building block.

**Author's Note:**

> My sincerest thanks to all the people that have helped make P:M the door to something wonderful that it has been to me.


End file.
